


The King Who Kissed the Beautiful Dark

by echoslam



Category: Shall We Date?: THE NIFLHEIM+
Genre: CosmicHorror!Isabella, Dark Character, F/M, Treat, cosmic horror, dark!Jean, philippe POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 20:34:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16126229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoslam/pseuds/echoslam
Summary: For centuries, Philippe longed for the return of the dearly departed Princess Isabella. But now that the seal upon her crypt has been broken, it would appear that undeath had transformed the presumptive Sun of Niflheim in unexpected and disturbing ways.





	The King Who Kissed the Beautiful Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [straightforwardly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/straightforwardly/gifts).



> Your Isabella prompt was brilliant, and I couldn't resist putting this together.^^

_He sought his bride amongst the fallen, a maiden of joyous spirit, a thousand years dead_

In the dim stillness of the tomb, Philippe stood breathless with anticipation, hardly daring to move as he watched the proceedings.

Orlando had been appointed as the leader of their expedition, tasked as they had been with finding King Jean’s prospective bride and bringing an end to her repose.   

“Please, my dearest princess...open your eyes.” Orlando spoke gently as he eased the lid of the casket aside. 

Philippe watched the earl’s shoulders stiffen as he beheld what lay inside. It was an almost imperceptible gesture, but he could tell that something was amiss.  

Curiosity getting the better of him, he crept over to the coffin and peered within. 

Philippe’s heart leapt into his throat as his mind reeled at the sight before him. 

Eyes? _What_ eyes?

The princess’s hair was long and lustrous as it had been in life - that much was unchanged. A gauzy shift was draped around where her torso should be, but she had nothing so humanlike as to be called a figure. Her form was an inky blackness, like a piece torn out of a starless night.    

He was powerless to do anything but stare and brace himself against the stone platform in an attempt to ground himself.

“Oh please do wake me up some more...!” 

He recalled her sweet voice, that of a girl who sang more like an adventurer than a lady of noble birth, but now her words reverberated with a low guttural echo, like something out of a nightmare. It tore at his very soul, making him want to simultaneously weep and cry out in anguish. Had she become a banshee in the course of her slumber? 

There were rumors that the Royal House of Kirkland had been cursed. The princess’s father was by all accounts dearly loved by his people, but even a great king could have enemies. Or was it something wrought in the dark, lonely air of this kingdom that had brought about the transformation? Few cared to dwell on the nature of their monarch’s power, but Philippe, with  his poet’s soul, had never allowed himself to forget that this kingdom had been born from the desperate wish of a single lonely man. 

Orlando, to his credit, showed no further hesitation. He reached into the coffin, and Philippe watched helplessly as his white-gloved hand was enveloped by dark tendrils. The formless creature leapt out of the coffin and stood before them, giving what appeared to be a little twirl.

“Oh, that’s much better!”

The sound of her giggles made him fight the urge to run as a violent dread once again assaulted his mind and began creeping down his spine.  

_What happened to you, Isabella...?_

 

* * *

  


_Whether it was her beauty, her voice, or her free-spirited bearing, there had always been a peculiar air about the princess, something magnetic yet unattainable_

The king was pleased with their efforts, and once the princess had been convinced to return to the castle, he announced his intention that a grand ball be held in her honor. There he would announce to all of Niflheim that he had chosen her as his umbral queen. 

“Aren’t you afraid?” asked Sunny, for once not addressing him with contempt.  As the princess’s new lady-in-waiting, she too had become familiar with her ghastly visage. 

Philippe shook his head. 

“I could not say, my lady.”  In truth, there was something oddly innocent about the newly-awakened Isabella. It was as if the whole world were new to her, and she longed to take it all in, nevermind the fact that the air seemed to grow even chillier wherever she walked, and the skeletal birds took flight in terror whenever she drew near.  

“It’s strange...” Sunny murmured.  “She fits into her clothes, somehow, but she just isn’t...solid. She’s like this bodiless mass that wants to chat and make silly jokes with me.” An uncharacteristic look of unease crossed her features. 

“I heard J.J. say that he wished he could bring a sample of her back to his lab for examination.” She scoffed dismissively at that. 

Just then, the chamberlain announced the entrance of King Jean and his bride-to-be. Philippe raised his head, and what he saw took his breath away, but this time for a very different reason. 

Isabella had been adorned with living flowers all over, tucked within the sheer folds of her gown and braided into the iridescent silk of her hair. It was hard to say if the effect was a display of Jean’s power or a clever trick that Sunny had employed when she dressed her, but there was something irresistible about how the swathes of colorful blooms seemed to frame the princess’s featureless void. That evening, none at the ball could take their eyes off of the newly betrothed couple. 

He watched as she laughed when the king took her hands in his and they whirled around the ballroom, carefree as children. 

And in that moment he abandoned his fear and remembered how he had loved her. 

The couple remained inseparable, enthusiasm never faltering as they seemed to draw from one another’s energy.  He looked on as the king lavished his attention on Isabella, attempting to feed her blood macarons from his fingers and embracing her at the slightest provocation.  

He felt a pang in his heart, and this time he knew it was brought on not by revulsion, but regret. 

 

* * *

  


_Many a suitor had fallen prey to her unwitting charms, but the king would give her up to no one_

“What are your writing, Philippe?” She approached him as he was working in the library. Her dulcet voice had once sounded to him like the very essence of suffering, but now he yearned to hear its sweet melody. 

“A chronicle, dear princess, about our own King Jean.” 

She clapped her not-hands in delight. 

“How wonderful! Oh please do show me when you are done.”

Philippe smiled as he gazed at her in longing. The king was one thing, but even his most fanciful words could not describe the wondrous creature before him. He reached out and cupped the silhouette of her face, guiding her to look up at him. Had Jean ever been able to hold her so still and transfixed, or was it a feat the likes of which only he was capable?   

“There are so many things in this strange land that I would so dearly love to show you, princess.” It was hard to tell in the absence of facial features, but he sensed that Isabella responded to his sentiments in kind. Perhaps there was more left of the girl he knew than he had first thought.

“Oh, Philippe,” she sighed, leaning in towards him.

“Honey Bunny, no!”

King Jean stormed towards them, eyes ruby red and cold as ice. 

Philippe found himself rooted to the spot as his love was torn from his arms. 

“Say no more, poet.” He felt the king’s palm upon his chest, muffling the pounding of his heart. A feeling of weightlessness washed over him, the sensation spreading upwards from the soles of his boots.

Mere seconds later, his legs had disappeared, along with the rest of him. 

“Forget him, my sweetness.” The king clapped Isabella in the inescapable circle of his arms, holding her tight as she howled. 

“Isabella.” She stiffened as he spoke her name. “You and I were meant to be. Never forget that.” She seemed to struggle for a moment, thrashing about as if some unseen force had begun taking over, attempting to use her as its vessel.

“Yes, my king.” Her voice was docile.    

Jean smirked as he led the princess away, and as his cloak brushed against the librarian's desk, a scrap of parchment fluttered off towards the ground, the last words Philippe had penned inscribed upon it:

_She was to be his true equal, a companion in the playground of his dreams_

_Pity the one who would stand in the way of their love.._


End file.
